


i was in love (with the place in my mind)

by weatheredlaw



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Come Eating, Come Sharing, Explicit Sexual Content, Good Omens Big Bang, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Alternating, Past Relationship(s), Slow Burn But The Whole Time They're Fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22395595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: There are so many things neither of them can change — how they met, the things they did, the words they said. It’s happened, it was probably always going to happen. And what it is, he can’t say, what he feels is almost too great for any one language. Inutterable, unspeakable —Ineffable.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 78
Kudos: 611
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019, Good Omens Human AUs, Ineffable Humans AU





	i was in love (with the place in my mind)

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my good omens big bang, which i am so glad to finally present to you all. i hope you enjoy, it was a roller coaster to write and sort out how it would end. playlist forthcoming. emthewalkingparadox is my lovely artist and friend!

The first time they actually speak — and really _speak_ to one another, they are sitting on the curb outside the library, three feet of space between them, sharing a cigarette. Crowley asks, “Why are you named after an angel?” and Aziraphale has two thoughts.

The first: how does he _know_ that? No one _knows_ that.

The second: “Aren’t you named after an occultist?”

“ _What?_ ” Crowley takes a drag. Smoke pours out of his nostrils. “What the fuck are you on about?”

“ _A. Crowley_. That’s your name.”

It’s true, it’s embroidered on the black backpack in the street between Crowley’s knees.

“S’not what that means,” he snarls.

Aziraphale takes the cigarette from his outstretched hand. “Looks that way to me.”

Crowley shakes his head. “You’ve got it wrong, angel. Saint Anthony,” he says. “Patron saint of lost things. Portuguese bloke. Suffered and everything.”

“He was a saint,” Aziraphale mutters. “Of course he suffered.”

“Yeah, but that’s what she was on about, right? My mother, I guess. You know—” He waves at the sky above him. Like his mother lives somewhere in the stratosphere, perhaps. “They do that.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know his mother, so he has no idea what Crowley’s really talking about. He passes the cigarette back. “Still an occultist’s name.”

“Yeah, well, it’s fucking _Anthony_ , alright? So...you know. Shove it.”

* * *

(It’s because of the desk in the library, right? Crowley had been using it for three months and then all of a sudden _he’s_ sitting there and who the hell does he think he is, yeah? Because it’s a good desk, it gets the perfect amount of air and the sun doesn’t shine in from the windows midday and hit you square in the face and Crowley can keep an eye on people coming and going.

Good desk, that desk.

And then he gets there on a Saturday afternoon and _he’s_ sitting at it and honestly, he’d explained to the librarian six times before they both got tossed out on their asses — he’s defending his _honor_ here.

Aziraphale doesn’t really care. He’d just wanted somewhere to sit.)

* * *

Crowley had already known Aziraphale. Never spoken to him, but he knew him. He didn’t _have_ to speak to everyone in his cohort. Seemed like a waste of time. They invite him to a lot of events, invite him out for drinks, invite him to different talks and things, but he always says no.

He learns, after the Desk Incident Which Will Not Happen Again, that Aziraphale always says no, too.

And that shouldn’t be endearing (nothing about Aziraphale is endearing, he is shorter than Crowley and nicer than Crowley and he rides a bloody _bike_ to campus every day I mean what _is that_?), but it’s kind of nice to know someone else can’t be bothered to Make An Effort with these people. Here to learn, he is. Here to be better than everyone else.

Can’t be better than them when you know all this personal shit about them, right? Favorite drinks and what they wear on Saturday nights and who they fancy. No, Crowley’s content with his desk, which keeps him away from his roommates, and he’s content with the coffee shop just up the street where the barista is the owner and knows his order and just puts it on his tab and trusts he’ll pay it when he pays it. And Crowley always pays his bill.

Aziraphale says no for a lot of the same reasons. He’s chosen this thing to be good at and so he needs to be the absolute _best_ at it. No one is as dedicated as he is, and no one is as clever as he is.

Well, Crowley might be. He’s been learning _that._

But it’s all the same, really. They’re out on a Saturday, he’s in instead. Having tea, annotating something that doesn’t really _need_ to be annotated, but you never know when that sort of thing will come in handy, right? Aziraphale has to be better than them, and he can’t be better than them when he knows things about them.

It’s Crowley he has to watch out for, and he knows _that_ from the beginning.

“Can you stop with the pen tapping, angel?” Crowley asks. “It’s _maddening._ ”

“I’m _thinking._ ”

“Well do it without triggering my fight-or-flight response please. _Christ._ ”

Aziraphale does stop, but only because he’s figured out what he was trying to sort through earlier. Crowley goes back to digging through a box of papers someone had left in their shared office space, hoping someone else’s work might be moderately useful in doing his own.

“You can’t _plagiarize._ ”

“I’m not going to copy it. I’m going to become _inspired_ by it. S’big difference.” He glances at Aziraphale and grins. “Oh, come off it, angel. You going to run to Dr. G? These are _ancient_ ,” he adds, and holds up one of the papers. “Written on a typewriter or something. Fuck.” He tosses the paper to the side. The whole endeavor doesn’t do much of anything except give Aziraphale something to focus on instead of this draft he needs to have ready for his meeting this afternoon, and he regrets that later, when Dr. G skims over it and doesn’t say much other than, “You can do better than this, Aziraphale,” before passing it back.

He hates when she’s quietly disappointed.

Crowley is leaning against the building when his meeting is over, smoking a cigarette and watching a few pigeons squabble over a bag of crisps in the parking lot.

“Go well?” he asks, and offers Aziraphale a smoke without asking.

“As well as it could.” Aziraphale takes a drag.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“Easy for you to say,” Aziraphale mutters. The smoke at the end of the cigarette curls around his hand. He feels very tired, now. Like he could lean back against this wall and just. Sleep. Sleep through the rest of the year, the rest of this decade. Wake up, be thirty, get a job somewhere normal, answering phones and telling someone that his boss has just stepped out and he’ll be back soon and if you’d like to leave a message you’re welcome to —

“ _Angel_.”

Aziraphale’s attention snaps to Crowley, who is gently prying the cigarette from his fingers.

“You look dead on your feet,” he says. “Need a lift?”

That’d be nice, Aziraphale thinks. Very nice, actually. Nice to sort of be taken care of for a bit. Nice to have someone do a bit of the heavy lifting so to speak.

But —

“You drive like a maniac, Crowley.”

“That’s a _no_ , then.”

Aziraphale sighs. He wishes it wasn’t. “It’s a no,” he says, and leaves Crowley where he found him.

* * *

There’s a static pressure bearing down on them both. It does different things to different people, but for Crowley and Aziraphale, it creates sparks. Dangerous ones. They see each other every day, share an office, and they’re both trying to be the cleverest one in the room.

Makes things difficult. Makes things a little shaky.

Aziraphale rides his bike to campus against his own better judgement — rain clouds are piling up overhead, but he’s quite certain it won’t be the downpour the weatherman’s been promising —

He’s so stupid, he thinks. Considering all he’s accomplished, he can be such an _idiot_.

Crowley says as much. He glances out the window in their office and clucks his tongue. “Bit of a shit day for a bike ride, isn’t it, angel?”

“I prefer to remain optimistic,” Aziraphale says, right before the sky cracks open and it starts raining cats and dogs.

Crowley _cackles._ Aziraphale knocks his coffee into the trash on purpose before heading to his next class.

They spend the rest of the afternoon trading barbs, making the lives of everyone around them more miserable than is strictly necessary. Crowley is easier to rile up than he looks, and Aziraphale started the day with the minimally required amount of patience and is now all out. By the time they’re both ready to go home, they’re nearly at each other’s throats. Aziraphale _welcomes_ the downpour he’s bound to get caught in. He can _think_ clearly for the first time.

They’re both standing by the back door leading to the parking lot, and Aziraphale’s bike is already slick wet with rain. Crowley extends his umbrella, looks out at his little red Yugo and says, “Just put it on the bike rack, angel. No sense in torturing yourself.”

“I don’t _need_ your help—”

“Come off it,” Crowley mutters. “I’m sorry, alright. I’m sorry for being a shit and I’m sorry for calling you...all the things I called you.”

“...I only heard one.”

“Well, I talk to myself a lot when you’re not around. Just—” He points toward the car. “Lemme give you a lift, yeah?”

Aziraphale considers him. Could be a mistake, taking favors from Crowley. He’s wily, he’s cunning, he’s always trying to one-up Aziraphale, any chance he can get. Of course, they’re _both_ guilty of that, and right now the idea of trying to get to his flat in these conditions gives him _actual_ chest pains. It’s the anxiety, of course. But, still.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says, well aware it doesn’t _sound_ like he’s putting up too much of a fight. Sun’s gone down already, and it’s dark, dark and cold and a car sounds _very_ nice. He maneuvers his bike to the Yugo while Crowley awkwardly tries to cover them both with the umbrella before they wrangle it onto the bike rack. They’re soaked, once they’re inside, but it’s warm when the air gets going.

“It’s a nice car,” Aziraphale says.

“It _is_ ,” Crowley says fondly, patting the dash. He takes good care of it. Should always take good care of a car, no matter what. “Right, where to?”

Aziraphale gives him some careful directions, but it’s obvious Crowley knows the city. Knows it quite well. At a turn, they pause, waiting for pedestrians, and Crowley says, “I called you stupid earlier. Shouldn’t have said that.”

“Oh. Well. That’s kind of you.”

“Because you’re not, you know.” He makes the turn. “You’re the only other person here I can stand, and I’m glad you’re...you’re around.”

“...Thank you.”

“Yeah, well. It’s whatever.” Crowley sniffs. Pulls around the back of the complex as close to the stairwell as possible.

Aziraphale looks at him. He’s taken off his sunglasses, head tipped back against the seat while he waits. He has...a very lovely profile, Aziraphale realizes. A beautiful neck and a sharply handsome face. Aziraphale wonders what Crowley thinks of him. Does he find him attractive? Does he consider the shape of his cheeks or the slope of his shoulders, the way Aziraphale is doing to _him_ right now?

Is the static pressure, is the _spark_ — is it attraction? Is that what divides them from one another, a simple touch between compatible rivals? Aziraphale couldn’t imagine dealing with anyone other than Crowley.

And Crowley — in this moment, being examined, and trying not to _preen_ under Aziraphale gaze — couldn’t imagine dealing with anyone other than Aziraphale.

The static pressure ignites. The line between what Aziraphale is imagining and what Aziraphale is doing disintegrates in a clap of thunder.

Crowley tastes like cigarettes and coffee, and his fingers are frigid on the back of Aziraphale’s neck.

Aziraphale tastes like those stupid strawberry candies he eats, the ones with the soft bit in the middle that taste nothing like a fucking strawberry. Crowley makes a soft noise, one he’ll be embarrassed about later, and wiggles out of his seatbelt, just as Aziraphale starts making a move for the back seat.

Cramped and wet and limbs too long, they tumble into some kind of position resembling intimacy as Crowley backs up against the door and Aziraphale starts pulling at his belt, freeing Crowley’s cock from his stupid, tight pants which are going to be a fucking _nightmare_ to pull on when they’re done here, but —

They’re doing this anyway. Aziraphale’s hand moves in swift strokes while he drags his tongue up Crowley’s length, stopping to swirl it just at the tip. In one fell swoop his takes him, his other hand keeping a steady pressure on Crowley’s stomach.

It’s cramped and uncomfortable and it’s _good_. It’s exactly what Crowley needs, exactly what Aziraphale has been wanting to do.

Neither had realized it until four minutes ago. And now here they are.

If Aziraphale had more room, he’d get one finger inside of Crowley, just to see. If he had more room and more time, he’d undress him and figure out all the places where he’s sensitive.

But he doesn’t have the time, and he doesn’t have the space. So he twists his hand and moves his mouth and waits for the tell-tale twitch before Crowley comes with a sound that Aziraphale wasn’t aware people could really make outside of the books he’s read — pleading and anguish kind of rolled into one.

Like no one’s touched him in a thousand years.

(If Crowley could explain it, he’d explain it very softly, and he’d tell Aziraphale all the ways he hasn’t been touched in ages, and why his heart was beating faster than it should be. It’d be an epic, probably. It’d be a tragedy and a comedy all rolled into one.

But there isn’t time.

And there isn’t space.

So he stays quiet, save for the desperate sound he makes that he hopes conveys what he has wanted to say for several weeks — _you are clever and you are beautiful and i have wanted ~~you~~ someone to touch me for a thousand years._)

The rain keeps beating down, nearly drowning out the sound of their breathing in the car. Aziraphale rises up, his hand still resting on Crowley’s abdomen, cold fingers now touching warm skin, trailing up his chest until he reaches that _neck_ , that fucking beautiful neck.

Crowley says, “You—”

Aziraphale makes an absolutely undignified sound in response as Crowley presses a palm against his erection.

“No, it’s fine—”

“Fair’s fair, angel.”

“Crowley. It’s fine.” He punctuates this with a careful hand on his cheek, and suddenly the crampedness of the Yugo hits him full force. Aziraphale _aches_ , and of course he’s hard, of course he wants to come, but he didn’t do it for that, and it feels like stealing if he does it for any reason other than the fact that, in the moment, Crowley was beautiful, and Aziraphale wanted him to know it.

“...You sure? I could—” Crowley makes a motion with his hand, waggles his eyebrows and kind of smiles. “Wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“It’s alright. It was...it was very good, in the moment. I’m afraid I might get stuck this way.”

Crowley huffs a laugh and moves so Aziraphale can get out of the Yugo. The rain’s let up some, and Aziraphale’s trying very hard not to call the two of them the catalyst.

Besides, catalysts escape unscathed.

* * *

It’s not like Aziraphale hasn’t gone down on someone in the backseat of their car before. Plenty of times, actually. He _likes_ it.

He just doesn’t usually share an office with them. It’s making the day after kind of difficult.

The sky is clear in the morning. Aziraphale takes a cold shower and doesn’t think about sharp hip bones and auburn hair. He rides his bike to campus and chains it to the rack and goes into his office and throws everything on his desk in _prayer_ because Crowley hasn’t gotten there yet. If Aziraphale is lucky, he’ll be gone all day.

He isn’t lucky. Certainly not lucky enough for that. Crowley saunters in twenty minutes late, chucks his sunglasses onto his desk with a hurried, “Morning,” before burying himself in his work. He has a lot of it, Aziraphale knows, and so the part where Crowley ignores him is really just...dedication, right? It’s just Crowley throwing himself into his paper and trying to stay focused.

That’s what it is, Aziraphale thinks, on his way to lecture. That’s literally it.

When he comes back in the afternoon, Crowley’s vanished from their shared space, but he comes in like a hurricane an hour later, swearing and muttering to himself. Aziraphale supposes that, eventually they’re going to have to Talk About It, but maybe now isn’t the best time.

That’s of course when Crowley looks up and says, “Can you help me edit this?”

Aziraphale’s been watching him for two solid minutes. He keeps getting distracted by his hands.

“Me?”

Crowley takes a very deep, calming breath. “ _Yes_ ,” he says, through gritted teeth.

“Well of course. _Of course_ ,” Aziraphale says, and goes to the desk. “Do you have a copy—” Crowley thrusts a stack of papers in his face. “Ah. Thank you.”

“No red ink,” Crowley says. “Can’t—” He waves a hand. “Distracts me.”

“Blue then?”

“Sure, whatever.”

Aziraphale nods and takes the papers to his desk. Then he walks back. “...Crowley.”

“ _What,_ Aziraphale. What is it?”

“Well, I...about last night—”

“I don’t care.” Crowley goes diving into his backpack for a book and unearths it with a hiss of triumph.

“...You don’t.”

“No. Bound to happen, yeah? Spend every waking moment together. Always talking. No, I don’t care.” He looks up. Aziraphale looks...distraught, from where he’s sitting.

 _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck_ —

Crowley takes a deep breath.

“I don’t...I don’t mean that I don’t care about it, like...like it was nothing. It was—” He grits his teeth, looking for the word. “ _Ugh_ , it was _nice_ , is what I’m trying to say. It was fine.”

“Oh. Oh, well that’s good.”

“Like I enjoyed it and I’m glad it happened. No regrets, angel. Life’s too bloody short.”

Aziraphale nods. “Of course, I absolutely agree.”

“Great. We’re on the same page then.”

“We are.”

Crowley throws up his hands and smiles. “Wonderful. Now _please_ , I have so much—”

“So if I invited you over next week after—” Aziraphale waves a hand over Crowley’s research. “You’d agree.”

Crowley stares. On one hand, he doesn’t feel like he has much of a choice.

On the other, he’s perfectly happy, in this case, not having one.

“...Yeah,” he says. “Absolutely. Definitely. Uh—”

“Excellent. I’ll just get to work on this shall I? It’ll be done before you know it.”

Aziraphale sits at his desk.

Crowley stares at the back of his head for a solid forty-five seconds before realizing what’s happened.

* * *

He doesn’t go to Aziraphale’s the next week. It’s three weeks, almost to the day, after the Yugo Incident that he finally gets over there, not really sure what to expect. He’d panicked and bought a bottle of wine, and Aziraphale takes it with a grin before sweeping him into the flat.

So fucking tidy. Crowley notes the distinct lack of garbage smell, or leftover takeout, or cigarettes lingering in tea mugs on the counter. His roommates came with the place, and he’s been desperate to move out, but hasn’t had the time to look.

Aziraphale’s flat puts all that into perspective.

“Nice place,” he says, while they smoke on the balcony, ashes falling onto the sidewalk below. Crowley hadn’t bothered to offer Aziraphale one of his own, just lit up and passed it to him.

“You think so?” Aziraphale takes a drag, tilts his head back and blows smoke at the stars. “Well, it’s nice to live alone, at least. Not sure how good I’d be with a flatmate.”

“Count yourself lucky.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Right, right. I forgot about your situation. Any luck with a new place?”

“Eh.” _Eh_ is easier than lying, or the truth. He takes the cigarette back from Aziraphale and sighs. “So. How’d your meeting go yesterday?”

Aziraphale pulls a face. He’d met with Dr. G the afternoon before, and she’d been happier than their last conversation. The silent disappointment was there, of course, but Aziraphale’s learning that it might just be what she looks like.

“It was fine,” he says, because that’s easier than lying, easier than the truth. It _was_ fine.

It was also a disaster and it was also insanely helpful and he also went into a cafe bathroom and _cried_ , but — that’s a lot, for tonight.

“Good.” They stand that way for a while, smoking in silence, until the last bit of ash falls from the end. Crowley says: “So.”

And Aziraphale kisses him.

They both taste like ash and wine, and Aziraphale is certain that he’d be more than satisfied tonight if they just rutted against one another like teenagers. But Crowley _nips_ at his bottom lip in a way that tells him what he wants, that tells Aziraphale — _we are absolutely going to fuck_.

So he pulls him inside.

Crowley likes this better — in the flat, clothes dry, clothes coming _off_ — than the backseat of the Yugo, but at the same time, it’s hard to start cataloguing when the farthest he’s gotten with Aziraphale is coming in his mouth. He’s not going to do that tonight. At least, he doesn’t think so.

And, for fifteen seconds, he’s unsure of their dynamic, right up until Aziraphale shoves him onto the bed and starts frantically tugging at his jeans.

“ _Off_ ,” he demands, and Crowley snaps to attention. He can get behind this.

Or he can have Aziraphale get behind him. That’s fine, too.

“So this is why you had me over?” Crowley asks, teasing.

Aziraphale looks at him. “Yes,” he says, and yanks off his sweater.

Crowley’s mouth goes completely dry.

As soon as Crowley’s cock is free, when he’s naked and spread out, Aziraphale starts cataloguing him. Filing little points away for a future that might not come.

Crowley is nearly rail thin, but there are soft parts to him. His stomach isn’t particularly defined, and when Aziraphale rests his forehead there and sucks gently on the top of his cock, Crowley moans, running his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair before dragging blunt nails over the back of his neck.

“ _Fuck_ —”

There’s more, too. Aziraphale tweaks a stiff nipple and Crowley arches. He drags a finger experimentally against his hole and Crowley hisses in anticipation. Aziraphale suspects if he dug his fingers into Crowley’s hair and _pulled_ he’d get quite a bit more than he bargained for.

Crowley, finally, forces him off and says, “That’s very good and all, but there’s a reason I’m here, yeah?” Aziraphale wipes spit from his lips and nods. Crowley groans. “Fuck _me_ , angel.”

“General idea,” Aziraphale mutters, and gets off the bed. He shucks off his pants and boxers before digging in the bedside table and pulling out a bottle of lube.

The little _snap_ of the bottle opening shouldn’t send shivers down Crowley’s spine, but it absolutely does. He spreads his legs further on instinct, while Aziraphale settles between his knees, spreading lube on his palm to warm it up before coating one finger. Crowley arches in anticipation, but the fantasy of it is really nothing compared to the action. Nothing compared to the way Aziraphale presses at him carefully with one finger.

“More?” he asks, voice far too soft. This is just sex. This is just them. Crowley doesn’t need tenderness.

(Such a liar. Such a bloody _liar_. He seeks out tenderness in Aziraphale like he’s starving for it.)

“Yeah,” he says, pleadingly. “ _Yeah_ , just—” He lifts a knee to give him more room. Aziraphale nods.

Crowley makes it through two fingers. He even starts begging around three. There’s a sort of _delicious_ moment where Aziraphale’s finger brushes up against his prostate and Crowley _keens_ , while Aziraphale grins.

“Think you’re ready?”

“Aziraphale I swear, if you don’t fuck me—”

“Just relax.” Aziraphale reaches for the condom by the bedside table, tears it open with a lazy twist of his fingers. Crowley is practically writhing beneath him, which makes him feel...good, in a way. Important. There’s a moment when a very soft, _please_ , slips from Crowley’s mouth and Aziraphale’s heart skips a beat.

Abrasive and _terrible_ , he is. Always teasing and goading. And now, he’s here, under Aziraphale’s scrutinizing gaze, held by nothing, but going nowhere.

 _Too skinny_ , he thinks, before rolling the condom over his cock. _Should help with that._

Crowley, to his credit, doesn’t drag Aziraphale completely inside him the minute the blunt head of his cock breeches him. He’s absolutely desperate for it, and doesn’t really want to dissect why. Could be loneliness. Could be nothing at all. Could _be_ the nothing that lives inside him, has set up camp, may as well have a name. Maybe Aziraphale fucking him into the mattress will feed it for a while. Or scare it into hiding for a bit. Not sure which he wants more.

“ _Crowley_.” The look on Aziraphale’s face tells him it’s been a while for everyone involved, it seems. “Oh... _oh_ —”

“Easy, angel.”

Aziraphale nods, waits to get used to the feeling, and then starts fucking Crowley in earnest. Every thrust eases him a bit further inside. One of Crowley’s hands flies behind him and grabs the headboard.

“Oh. Oh, _fuck_.”

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale asks. He’s completely flush with Crowley’s ass and holds himself there, which is _agony_ , of course, because what he wants to do is just let go and _take._ But they’ve worked so hard to get here, carefully constructed the foundation of whatever kind of friendship this has become, and Aziraphale is terrified of breaking it.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s good. Just—” Crowley takes a deep breath. “Can you move now? Please.”

Aziraphale nods. “Of course,” he says, and draws back before easing himself back in. He feels one of Crowley’s legs curl around him, urging him on. There’s a quick nod between them, which Aziraphale understands.

All they’ve done is work. All they’ve done is throw themselves into their writing and their research and at the altar of critique again and again. What Aziraphale wants — what he understands, intimately, that _Crowley_ wants — is to just let _go._

So —

He lets go.

And Crowley _feels_ it. When he starts getting fucked, getting _really_ fucked, it rattles through him like an earthquake. Shakes the fault lines of his bones and muscles and triggers a tidal wave of need that rushes through him. Whatever Aziraphale is giving him, he needs more. Whatever Aziraphale is offering him, he needs _more_. Every thrust, every whisper, every single touch, it creates a need for another and Crowley is so hungry for it. He starts pushing back, trying to take Aziraphale’s cock deeper, _harder_.

Aziraphale leans down, which forces him in deeper, and says, “You feel _incredible_.”

Crowley comes unhinged.

He looks at Aziraphale and feels a terrible need to kiss him. The kiss in the car had been their first, but Crowley had been too charged to think of it like that. The kiss, the touching, the blow job in the car was just part of that day, part of their frustration. They’d _needed_ that. Everything had been leading up to it Crowley realizes, as he drags their mouths together.

“ _Crowley._ ”

“Don’t stop.”

“I won’t. I won’t, just—” Aziraphale moves one of Crowley’s legs, which shifts the angle of his thrusts and _punches_ a sound from him that makes Aziraphale stop. “Are you—”

“Don’t ask me that. Don’t. Just—” Crowley throws his head back, breathing heavy. “Aziraphale, _please._ Please fuck me.”

Aziraphale hesitates, then nods. Crowley makes sounds that devastate him. He’s learning that. The sound in the car, the soft whine on the balcony, and now all _this._ It’s so much. _It’s so much_ , and Aziraphale isn’t sure how much longer he’s going to last as he thrusts completely in and then sets a brutal pace. The room smells like wine and sex and Aziraphale is gripping Crowley so hard he’s sure his fingerprints will be on his hips for a hundred years. That they will be old and look for them and find them there.

Crowley arches and says, “ _I’m gonna_ —” Takes a breath. “I’m gonna come.”

“That’s good. Come for me, can you? Can you come for me? I want to see it.”

Crowley nods, reaching down to stroke his cock in time with Aziraphale’s thrusts. Everything is a rhythm, now. Everything is timed and measured and hits the perfect beat. Crowley groans and squeezes his cock and comes, striping his chest and says, “ _Aziraphale_ —”

It _does_ something. Aziraphale’s mouth falls open and he thrusts in, _hard_ , and comes, surging forward and capturing Crowley’s mouth with his own. He holds himself very still, one hand coming up to cup the back of Crowley’s head.

This is dangerous, he realizes. This is so _very_ dangerous. Crowley looks at him, and his expression is as devastating as the sounds he’s made. Open and anxious and relaxed all at once. He moves, clenching around Aziraphale’s softening cock, and the moment shatters. Aziraphale gasps and pulls out, falling onto his back. They lay there in an easy silent for a few minutes before Aziraphale gets up to ditch his condom.

“Bring a towel?” Crowley asks, surprised he can speak. He closes his eyes and shivers. The air in the room is cool. He feels Aziraphale come back to the bed and holds his hand out for a towel, but instead —

“Can I?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley opens his eyes. Aziraphale settles between his legs again, stroking the inside of his thigh before his hand comes up to slide through some of the come on Crowley’s stomach.

“I, uh. I mean, if you want to—” Aziraphale nods and ducks his head before laving his tongue over Crowley’s chest. “ _Fuck._ ” There’s no way he’s getting hard again, but if he could, this would definitely be the thing that does it.

When he’s done, Aziraphale pushes himself up, slides his tongue into Crowley’s mouth so he can taste himself.

“You should spend the night,” he murmurs, kissing along Crowley’s jaw, down his neck. “I can think of a thing or two we could do come morning.”

Crowley huffs a laugh under him and, after a moment, pushes him off. “I should go home,” he says. “I mean, it’s a _really_ nice offer—” He lets Aziraphale kiss him again, then sits up. “But I…”

There’s a lot there. There’s a lot to say. Crowley takes a breath.

“I’m just. Insanely busy. I should really be up early tomorrow. You know. Work things. Work...stuff.”

Aziraphale sits up beside him. “Crowley we work together.”

Crowley tries to grin. He’s fairly sure he only manages to look _ill._ “Then you, uh. You know. How busy we are.” He leans in and kisses Aziraphale quick. “Another morning, yeah?”

Aziraphale watches him get up and dress. Feels stupid now, sitting naked in his own bed, the taste of come and wine on the back of his tongue.

“Right,” he says. “Another morning, then.”

* * *

Aziraphale spends the weekend in a funk. Crowley had _run_ from him, had invented excuses he knew were weak, and fled. It’s more than a bit of a wound to his ego, which Aziraphale will openly admit, this far into his degree, is incredibly fragile. He has no idea what Crowley’s feeling over the next two days, but come Monday, he’s fully expecting them both to pretend it never happened.

And then Aziraphale gets into their shared office at eight AM and Crowley is already there, taking off his jacket. His hair is pulled away from his face in a half-pony, his sunglasses are still on, and the sun is coming through the window in a way that’s powerful enough to _stir_ something, deep in his gut.

“Morning,” he says.

Crowley looks up, takes off his sunglasses, and swallows.

“Door,” Crowley says. Aziraphale backs into it, snapping it shut. Crowley closes the space between them, turns the lock, and kisses him.

“I thought—”

“Yeah.” Crowley pulls back, breathing heavy, pupils blown wide. “Me, too.” He drops slowly to his knees, reaching up and tentatively plucking at Aziraphale’s belt. Aziraphale nods, and Crowley’s hands move with more confidence. He grins and gets the belt undone, then the button and zipper. He pulls Aziraphale’s cock free and strokes it, feeling it grow hard in his hand.

Crowley has never done this before. He has never wanted someone the way he wants this. He’d thought about Aziraphale all weekend, thought about him with a trembling hand on his cock. Crowley had no idea how this morning would go, but he didn’t see himself on his knees, one hand on Aziraphale’s abdomen, the other squeezing the base of his cock while he drew his tongue around the tip.

“ _Crowley_ —” One hand flies up into his hair, gives a gentle tug. Crowley groans, taking him deeper. He starts bobbing his head, and he’s not entirely sure showing off, trying to take Aziraphale from tip to root, is the _best_ idea, but he’s already addicted to the heady taste of his cock on his tongue.

“You’re good at that,” Aziraphale says, laughing and keeping himself pressed against the door. They’ve chosen the _worst_ spot to do this, there are definitely people walking down the hall, but Crowley is being very quiet, and Aziraphale is practiced at this sort of self control.

He’d love to see how quiet Crowley could be, bent over his desk, letting Aziraphale fuck him stupid early one morning. He’d _love_ to know if he would need to gag him, if he’d need to cover his mouth with his hand.

That sends a shiver of pleasure down his back, and he thrusts forward, forcing his cock further into Crowley’s mouth. He makes a choking sound, but doesn’t stop. Just pulls backs, takes a breath, and keeps going. There’s an _obscene_ trail of spit dripping from his chin. Aziraphale looks down, carding his fingers through Crowley’s hair, pulling the half-pony out of its tie.

“Gorgeous. _Gorgeous_.”

Crowley’s eyes flutter closed for a moment before he reaches up and helps guide Aziraphale’s hands to either side of his head.

“Really?”

A nod.

“Oh, _Crowley._ ” Aziraphale brushes the hair from his forehead and then starts fucking his mouth in earnest. “Look at you. _Look at you._ This is what I’d wanted, you know. The morning after.” He fucks in, holds himself for a second, then starts thrusting again. “I just wanted this.” He slows down, feeling his orgasm starting to well up inside him. “I’m going to have to come in your mouth, you know. Are you going to be able to take it?” Crowley nods again. “Perfect. _So_ perfect. I’m going to come, is that alright? Of course it’s alright. The only other option is for me to come on the floor, and you don’t want that, do you? You want to taste this, don’t you?” Crowley makes a noise, and Aziraphale reaches up and tugs on his hair, _hard_ , before he pulls back, holding his cock against Crowley’s lips and coming in his mouth.

It’s a good look for him. Most of it’s on his tongue, but there’s a bit on his chin and cheek. When Crowley pulls back, he swallows before reaching up and dragging his fingers through it and licking them clean.

Aziraphale collapses against the door. “That was, um.”

Crowley winces, getting up from his knees. “Yeah.” He drags a hand over his cheeks. “Is it—”

“You’re fine.”

He nods. “I wasn’t...I didn’t _expect_ —”

“Well you left. I thought maybe we were done.”

Crowley laughs. “I, uh. I don’t know _when_ I’ll be done with you, angel.”

“Opened the proverbial floodgates did we?”

Crowley nods. “I think we did.”

Aziraphale fixes his pants and belt, tucks his shirt back in. “I don’t have a problem with that,” he says, stepping forward and putting a hand on Crowley’s chest. “Do you?”

“Nope. No problems.”

Aziraphale nods. “...Good. Because I know...I know we could both _use_ it, sometimes. Might be good for...for _stress_ relief.” Crowley nods. “And, you know. You’re the only person around here I like spending any time with anyway. May as well enjoy ourselves, right?”

Crowley laughs again. “Can’t argue with that.”

Aziraphale worries his bottom lip. “But that’s...that’s all it is. I just don’t know if I’ve the time to negotiate something...something _bigger._ Do you understand?”

Crowley’s mouth works around the words he _wants_ to say. Words like, _Well that’s really all I’ve ever been good for_ , and _You and my ex would get along swell, you know._ But, no. No, he shouldn’t say things like that. He’d upset Aziraphale, for starters. And beyond this... _arrangement_ , there’s really nothing about Aziraphale that reminds him of Luke at all.

At least Aziraphale invited him to spend the night.

“Yeah, no, I understand. It’s, ah. It’s easier, you know. Keep things simple.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Right! Simple. _Easy._ ”

They both laugh, now. It is painfully awkward. Crowley’s erection, previously _insistent_ and wanting to be paid attention to, is dying.

Nothing like a good negotiation to kill the mood.

* * *

“Angel.”

“Hm?”

“Fifth cup,” Crowley says, not looking up from the papers he’s been grading.

Aziraphale sets down his mug. “Come again?”

Crowley sighs, tossing his pen onto the desk and scrubbing both hands over his face. “Your _fifth_. Cup.” He points.

“And?”

“ _And._ ” Crowley stands, glancing at his watch. He needs to get to his lecture and make an excuse for why these papers aren’t graded. The real reason is he should have been doing it last night, but he wound up at Aziraphale’s, on his hands and knees, getting his brains fucked out.

He definitely can’t tell his students that.

“You _know_ what I’m saying.”

Aziraphale scowls. “Mind your own business.”

“You were up until three AM last night.”

“Part of that is _your_ fault.”

Crowley shrugs. “Fair point. Lift home, tonight?”

Aziraphale turns in his chair. He’s been wanting to suggest this for a while, but Crowley’s always made it pretty clear how _not_ welcome Aziraphale is in his flat. Still. Things are different now. “Why don’t I stay with you tonight? Meet your flatmates?”

Crowley _visibly_ seizes. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh, come off it, they can’t be that bad.”

“Yes,” Crowley says. He stuffs his papers into his bag and throws it over his shoulder. “They are.”

“Crowley—”

“Hey. _Drop it._ You can’t stay there with me, it’s not an option. Do you understand?” He moves toward the door, then stops. “Look. I’m... _sorry._ ” It always sounds like a trial when he says it. Aziraphale is learning to appreciate that. “But it’s really in everyone’s best interest if you don’t. Not ever.”

“...Alright.”

“Aziraphale, I mean it.”

Aziraphale raises his hands. “Alright, alright. I understand. You’re going to be late,” he adds.

Crowley looks at his watch, swears, and runs out.

They probably would have learned a lot of the things they start learning about one another eventually. Crowley thinks it could have been easy, in time. Easy without staying over, easy without sex.

But it’s _easier_ , he realizes. Easier when he knows that Aziraphale prefers a slow rise, or likes to bake granola for himself on Sundays. Easier when he knows that the hot water side of the shower is a little broken, and only needs to go a bit to the left before it gets scorching.

He learns that Aziraphale has some siblings, but they don’t talk much. He learns that Aziraphale likes to go to bed with a piece of chocolate in his mouth sometimes, even after he’s brushed. He learns that Aziraphale’s favorite band is Simon and Garfunkel, but he writes while listening to Chopin. He learns that Aziraphale reads fantasy novels when no one is really looking, and he dog ears the pages. Crowley gives him grief for days over that, whispering in his ear how one of his favorite authors or another is going to find him and tell him off.

And Aziraphale is learning things, too. He’s learning that Crowley likes to sleep in on Sundays, whenever he can. He’s learning Crowley buys the cheapest wine he can find because he just can’t taste the difference. He’s learning Crowley likes his tea with more milk than sugar, which is kind of surprising. He’s learning Crowley really isn’t _wild_ about the taste of coffee, or chocolate, or pears.

But he likes raspberries, and he likes fresh lemonade, and he runs a little hot, always kicking off the sheets, even as they get deeper into the cold months.

Aziraphale learns that Crowley sometimes needs his space and that he’s bad at asking for it, so he’ll often take it upon himself to say, “I’ll just bike home today,” when he sees the tension in Crowley’s shoulders building to a breaking point. He’ll often find him sleeping on the couch in their office the next morning, too exhausted to go home, too anxious to go anywhere else.

The one thing he’s learned about Crowley though, that he doesn’t really understand, is that he _hates_ his roommates.

Hastur and Ligur were, apparently, boys he went to secondary school with. Boys he grew up around. Crowley had needed a place to live, _badly_ , last year, recognized them in an advert in the paper, and gotten the place in a day. He tells Aziraphale he regrets that decision every day of his life.

“And you still can’t come over,” he adds, because Aziraphale was _born_ curious, and he’s absolutely going to die that way. In Aziraphale’s mind, they really can’t be that bad, not nearly as bad as Crowley says. Crowley exaggerates the little things sometimes, like how he says the bowl of hot and sour soup at the Chinese place across from Aziraphale’s flat is the best in London, even though, in Aziraphale’s opinion, it’s really only third or fourth best. Or how he says Dr. G is _insane_ when really she’s just a bit eccentric, and bringing her cat to work isn’t so much a _bad_ thing as it is just a very strange one.

So when Crowley says, “My roommates are disgusting and I hate them,” Aziraphale just sort of assumes they’re...untidy, maybe smoke outside with the balcony door open.

It is...so much worse than that.

Aziraphale doesn’t really _plan_ to swing by Crowley’s flat, but it’s been almost a week since they’ve said more than a few words to one another, both in the midst of massive rewrites, and he thinks they could honestly do with a good night out. Doesn’t have to end in sex, but he wouldn’t complain if it did. He knows where Crowley lives because they’ve swung by there so he could grab a change of clothes. It’s walking distance, so Aziraphale tugs on his coat and boots and walks briskly the few blocks to Crowley’s flat, rings the bell for the right door, and finds himself buzzed right up. No questions asked.

It’s strange, he thinks. But not unheard of. When he gets to the door, however, he’s _really_ wishing he’d just...asked if Crowley could come down.

The place reeks of cigarette smoke. Sure, he and Crowley will share one every so often, but they keep it out of the office, and they never smoke inside Aziraphale’s flat. The entire place smells like an ashtray, of which there are none. A quick glance tells him various mugs and glasses have been repurposed, once mostly empty, and are littering the coffee table and counter tops. A man with blond hair and bloodshot eyes opens the door, squinting at Aziraphale.

“You’re not the takeaway.”

“That’s Crowley’s bloke,” someone says from behind him. There’s a distinct crashing sound and Aziraphale sees Crowley suddenly appear out from a door at the back of the flat. He looks like he’s having a seizure.

“ _Aziraphale._ ”

“Ah. There you are.”

Crowley comes tumbling out of the room, pulling on his boots, not bothering to lace them up. He shoves past the man at the door, grabs his keys and coat, and shoves Aziraphale back so hard he hits the opposite wall.

“We’re leaving,” he announces, and starts dragging Aziraphale toward the stairs.

“Oi! Let the takeaway in on your way out!” the man at the door calls, before slamming it shut.

They get outside, letting someone from a noodle place in on their way out. Crowley rounds on Aziraphale.

“I _told you_ not to come here. I fucking _told you_.”

“Well I don’t know your number, so I couldn’t ring, and I just wanted to walk around and see the lights in some of the windows, maybe get a bite. We haven’t spoken in days—”

“We’re _busy_.”

“Yes, I _know_ , which is why I thought you could use a break.” Aziraphale sighs, watching Crowley angrily kneel down to tie the laces of his boots, muttering to himself. “Crowley, I’m sorry.”

Crowley glances up. He feels _stricken._ He’d never wanted Aziraphale to meet Hastur and Ligur, they’re cretins and he’s been trying to move out for what feels like centuries. But he can’t help but feel...a little pleased. Pleased that Aziraphale thought of him, thought he might be in need of rescue, and then carried it out. It’s…

 _Ugh._ It’s sweet. And he hates that.

 _No time to negotiate something bigger_ , he reminds himself, even as his heart skips a very necessary beat, watching snow start to dust Aziraphale’s curls.

“It’s alright,” he says finally, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Needed to air myself out anyway. Want to grab a bite, still? Got your appetite and everything after that?”

“Oh dear lord, it _was_ awful. You poor thing.” They start heading down the street, their feet carrying them together toward one of their favorite spots, a little Indian place on the corner. “Why don’t we get you a lassi and talk about getting a new flat, hm?”

“No time.”

“Then we’ll _make_ time, Crowley. Honestly, you can’t expect to keep working in a mess like that. I’ll help, I’m very good at finding little deals and such.” Crowley laughs, because he believes it, and lets Aziraphale pry the matter from his warm and willing hands. _How nice_ , he thinks.

_How nice._

* * *

“Bloody hell, nice _find._ ”

“I told you,” Aziraphale says, not unsmugly. “I’m good at this sort of thing.”

“I’d never in a million years have sussed this place out.” Crowley draws a hand along the wall leading to the one bedroom in the place. It’s got a kitchen and a sitting room, a spot for a little table and the bedroom is just big enough should he want to buy a few things. He’ll need to — the room in Hastur and Ligur’s place came with the furniture. Leftover from their last flatmate, who vanished in the middle of the night. Crowley gets why.

“I’ll need some things,” he says idly.

“We can look for them.”

“Don’t have to help with that,” he says, but doesn’t really mean it. He knows Aziraphale wouldn’t let him do it on his own either anyway. There are some things they just...they do together. All the time. This — find the flat, furnishing the flat — feels like one of them.

“Do you like it?” Aziraphale asks carefully, putting a hand on his elbow. He’s been so worried about this moment, worried Crowley would view it like an intrusion, like those moments when he needs his space and can’t find the words to say it.

“I do.”

“Then we should make sure you get it. Come on.” Aziraphale takes him downstairs to fill out the paperwork. It’s a mindless, pleasant sort of day. They get Crowley a flat, they have lunch at the sandwich shop across the way, and then they go back to Aziraphale’s place for a drink.

Crowley is tipsy, _beyond_ tipsy, actually, when he sets the bottle on the table and climbs into Aziraphale’s lap.

“Knight in shining armor, you are.”

“I don’t know about _that._ I just…” Aziraphale closes his eyes as Crowley cups his jaw in his hands, noses his away over his cheek and to his ear, nipping the skin. “Oh, dear.” He slides his hands up his side, ghosting under the warm skin of his belly, dragging blunt nails up and over his ribs. “ _Crowley._ ”

“Been a couple weeks, hasn’t it?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“So busy, angel. So busy, all the time.”

Aziraphale draws back and looks up at him. “Not busy now, aren’t we?”

Crowley shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Seems like we’re not.” He kisses him, open mouthed and _filthy_ , tongue sliding against Aziraphale’s own with a dazzling touch, nipping at this bottom lip as he pulls back. “Eventually I’ll take you back to my place. Be pretty sexy when I can say that, hm?”

“Mmm.” Aziraphale rolls his hips as they both lean back. _Oh_ , he could do this constantly. He _misses_ this when they don’t, the careful touch and tug, the easy way they fall into one another’s arms.

Crowley is his best friend, he realizes. It hits him very suddenly, rolls through him alongside a shiver of pleasure.

He wonders — would it have happened without...all of this? He wonders, too, if he’d have wanted it any other way.

“Crowley—”

“Bed,” Crowley says, before Aziraphale can suggest it.

“Yes.”

They go, tugging at clothes on the way down the hall. Aziraphale gives a gentle shove and Crowley falls back, while he settles between his knees and finishes pulling off his jeans.

Crowley sits up on his elbows, looking down. He hisses as the first swipe of Aziaphale’s tongue touches his cock, head falling back with a groan. He’s needed this. Needed to be touched and fucked for a while now. Aziraphale is so _good_ at anticipating his needs, and Crowley really hates how much he loves that.

Luke never...Luke _could_ never—

No. _No._ Bad idea, always a bad idea, comparing Aziraphale to Luke. So _different_ , so fucking different from one another. Softer, Aziraphale is. Kinder. Just...better. A better lover, a better person, a better listener.

Doesn’t mean Crowley doesn’t catalogue their differences at night, when he’s trying to decide how the rest of his life should go. Luke writes, sometimes. Postcard from here or there. Crowley keeps them in a cigar box stashed under his bed. Some he’s read, some he hasn’t. He just —

“Oh, _fuck._ ” Aziraphale’s taken him in one swallow, almost to the base, and that fucking _guts_ him. “Oh, fuck, do that again. Do it, do—” He falls back, hands covering his face while Aziraphale _takes_ him. He feels his knees being lifted over Aziraphale’s shoulders. “I’ll come in your mouth, you have to stop in a minute, I’ll—”

Aziraphale pulls off. “Maybe I want you to.”

“Oh, _fuck._ ” Crowley grabs the blanket under him with one hand while Aziraphale goes down on him like a bloody madman. He’s never had it this good before, he thinks. Not just tonight, but just...just in _general._ Just in life. Sure he’s miserable in his flat, but look who fixed it? And sure he’s kind of lonely because he’s learned his heart is a muscle sort of desperate to be loved — but even this, even just touching and knowing Aziraphale actually gives a fuck about him is good enough.

It’s enough, anyway.

He feels his orgasm welling up, seeping through the whimpers he’s going to pretend in the morning didn’t happen and he barely has time to say, “I’m going to—” before he _does._ He comes in Aziraphale’s mouth with a cry, hips bucking up.

Aziraphale is ready before it happens, drawing back so Crowley doesn’t gag him. He takes it all, feeling come slipping just from the corner of his mouth for a second before he pulls off Crowley’s cock and kisses him.

Crowley makes a startled noise, then moans, taking his own come with a steady tongue. He grabs Aziraphale by the back of the next and holds him fast, like he might leave him there.

Aziraphale looks down at him, laughing. “Was that alright? I’ve...I’ve never—”

“It was _more_ than alright. Fuck, angel. _Fuck._ ” Crowley kisses him again, licking the last traces of come from his mouth and chin. “You’re going to fucking _kill_ me, but it’s good, angel. It was _really_ good.”

Aziraphale leans in, kisses the corner of his mouth and asks, “Could you take it? If I fucked you?”

Crowley lazily smears their lips together. Nods. “Yeah. I could.”

“And could I...could we—” Aziraphale takes a breath, kisses Crowley’s neck slowly, intentionally. “Can I come inside you?”

Crowley’s entire body arches at the thought. He nods. Aziraphale draws back.

“Alright.” He shifts and reaches into the bedside table, pulling out the bottle of lube and leaning back. He warms some in the palm of his hand before slicking his fingers and pressing one gently into Crowley.

He’s over-sensitive from coming once, but it’s a good _push_ against his nerves. Crowley sinks into the feeling, lets himself be gathered up and drawn under by the steady pressure of Aziraphale’s fingers inside him, stretching him open. He doesn’t do much more than moan and nod when Aziraphale asks if it’s alright, or if he can take one more. And _fuck, fuck, of course he can_ , he wants to say, but words are so hard. Words are useless when they can just figure each other out this way.

“Are you ready for me?”

“ _Hnn._ ”

Aziraphale huffs. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He moves in, teasing Crowley with the head of his cock until Crowley is a pleading, writhing mess underneath him. “That’s better,” he says, and pushes in.

It feels the same and also different. It’s less about Aziraphale’s bare cock inside him and more about what comes _after_. That he’ll be full of him. That it will slip out of him and he’ll be a _mess_ with it and _fuck_ does he want that. He really fucking wants that.

Aziraphale starts moving faster, and the thought has occured to him, too. He wants to fill Crowley up, come inside him and get down between to see what he looks like, to see how fucking gorgeous he looks with Aziraphale’s come dribbling out of him.

“You feel—” Crowley gasps, trying to just _say it._ “Oh, you _feel_ so—”

“So do you.” Aziraphale lean in and kisses him, pulling Crowley’s bottom lip between his teeth. “Is it too much? Are you alright?”

“Don’t stop, _please_ don’t stop.”

“I won’t, I promise. Not until you’re full of me. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You want me to come inside you, to fill you up?”

“ _Yes_ , fuck, _yes_ —”

“Oh, love, I want that. I really want that.”

Crowley chokes. _Love._

“Please,” he says again. “Please come, I _need_ —”

“I know what you need. I’ll give it to you, I’ll give it up for you, just hold on.” Aziraphale fucks him faster, moves until Crowley can barely process anything but the sound of skin on skin and Aziraphale saying his name over and over until he tenses, until he _shouts_ with the effort and Crowley _feels it._ He feels it when Aziraphale comes, digs his nails into his arms and whines.

The world goes very still and very quiet in the space right after.

Aziraphale called him _love._ He can still taste it on the back of his tongue, it just —

Crowley makes a soft noise under him. “Was it too much?” Aziraphale asks.

“No. It was perfect. It was...it was really good, angel.”

Aziraphale laughs and pulls out of him carefully, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “All full of me now, aren’t you?” Crowley hums contentedly. “May I see?”

Crowley shifts. He wants to go sleep, honestly. He’s incredibly pleased. “Mmhm,” he says, not really sure what Aziraphale means.

Another kiss. Aziraphale moves down and parts Crowley’s legs. He slides one finger between his cheeks and they’re slick with his come. Crowley hisses above him and Aziraphale asks, “Would you like to have some?”

“I…”

“Is this alright?”

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Crowley pushes himself onto his elbows and the weight of Aziraphale’s question nearly knocks him down again. “You want...your mouth—”

“Very much.”

Crowley groans and falls back again, covering his face with his hands and nodding. Aziraphale hums, ducks his head down close, and puts his mouth there.

Crowley _short circuits._

“Holy—” His hips punch up of their own accord. Aziraphale doesn’t stop. He licks and sucks and moans, his mouth against Crowley’s ass as he draws out his own come. When he’s done he moves up and slides his tongue into Crowley’s mouth like it’s _nothing._ Like Crowley should expect to be fed this way.

“Mmph—” He puts a hand behind Aziraphale’s head and holds him close, kissing and licking the come from his tongue and mouth.

When he’s done, Aziraphale pulls back and is met with such fondness it rattles him.

“I, um—”

“You do that a lot?” Crowley asks softly, clearly exhausted.

“No,” Aziraphale says. “Not...not really.” He clears his throat and moves to lay on his side. “Did you like it?” he asks.

“I did.”

“Good. I can do it again, sometime.”

“Anyone ever done it for you?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale thinks. “Once,” he says, “but it was a long time ago.”

Crowley feels himself bristle, jealous of someone he doesn’t know. “I could do it,” he says, and rolls over, putting a possessive hand over Aziraphale’s heart. “Whenever you want.”

“There’s no rush—”

“I know. I just…” He almost thinks better of it, but kisses him anyway before relaxing into the crook of Aziraphale’s arm.

 _Love_ , he thinks. _He called me love._

* * *

“What about these?”

“Crowley, they don’t match.”

“Right, well, it’s my flat not yours, yeah?” He holds the two plates up and then drops them in the basket. One is an atrocious red, in some kind of knock-off Spode pattern. The other is black with blue spots on it. They’re _both_ ugly as sin.

“That’s what you said about the sofa—”

“ _Which_ you agreed was extremely comfortable.” Crowley is grinning like a maniac, going from shelf to shelf. He’s never lived in a flat on his own before, he explains, and so he’s never really bought his own dishes or furniture. It’s a once in a lifetime experience that is giving Aziraphale _hives._

“What about the peach colored ones? Nice big set.”

Crowley waves a hand, already distracted by the shelf of most likely _broken_ appliances. “Do you think I’ll need a toaster? I like toast.”

“Oh? I wasn’t aware you ate anything at all without me threatening you within an inch of your life.”

Crowley makes a face. “I like toast,” he says again, and puts the toaster in the basket.

“It’s probably broken.”

“We’ll see when we take it home, won’t we?”

Aziraphale almost points out that it’s not _their_ home, and he shouldn’t talk like it is, but Crowley’s already moving down the line. They wind up with five mismatched plates, a set of cobbled together silverware, and three goblets with skull heads for drinking.

“And this mug,” Crowley says.

“It says _Veronica_. It’s a personalized mug from someone’s vacation, Crowley. Someone has quite literally drank from it.”

Aziraphale suddenly finds himself being kissed, the mug dangling dangerously loose between Crowley’s fingers. He melts into it, kissing him back and leaning against a wall of old pictures until a store clerk clears her throat.

Crowley grins at him, looking smug. “Alright,” he concedes. “I’m done.” The whole lot costs practically nothing, and Crowley is ridiculously pleased. They’ll deliver the sofa the next morning, and he spends the car ride back to the flat humming along to a David Bowie type. Aziraphale’s never seen him so happy.

“Well, it’ll be an improvement over what’s in there now,” he says.

“What, you don’t _like_ my three boxes of nothing? Thought you said it gave the place character.”

Aziraphale finally laughs and leans back in the passenger seat, glancing over at Crowley with more fondness than he probably should.

Crowley’s aware of it. He keeps his eyes on the road.

It’s true, he’d left Hastur and Ligur’s flat with barely enough to fill the trunk of the Yugo. Aziraphale had been a little shocked. All his clothes had fit in the backseat, he had three boxes of books, papers, knicknacks, and a single potted vine, which frankly took up more room than anything else.

Crowley, Aziraphale had learned, had somewhat of a green thumb. He needed to, he supposed — nothing but mold grew in his old place.

Upstairs in his new flat, he’d put the plant on the balcony beside the ashtray just the day before. They stand out there now, drinking wine from the skull goblets, sharing a cigarette, and watching the sun go down.

“Should we get you unpacked?” Aziraphale says. “We’re losing daylight. Could take _ages._ ”

“Ha bloody _ha_ ,” Crowley mutters, going in and turning on some lights. He’ll get some more things later. There’s a shelf that got left behind along one of the walls in the living room and he didn’t bother to tell anyone about it, so now it’s his. Aziraphale had given him a _look_ , which meant he didn’t approve, but Crowley was afforded so few things in this life, an abandoned bookshelf seemed like a scant reward.

“I’ll put your books on here?”

“Whatever you’d like,” Crowley says, taking the cups into the kitchen and filling them up. “Look, I haven’t got a mattress yet, I thought maybe tomorrow we—”

He goes back into the sitting room, and Aziraphale is holding the cigar box.

The wine in his hands nearly drops along with his stomach.

“That’s um. That’s—”

Aziraphale looks up. “Who’s Luke?”

Crowley sets the goblets on the counter and crosses the room to him, gently prying the box from his hands. “No one,” he says. “Don’t...don’t worry—”

“He calls you _love._ Is he someone you’re still with?”

“He’s—”

“Crowley, I’m not comfortable with that. I don’t want to come between anyone and I know we said it wasn’t serious, but what we _do_ is—”

“He’s my ex.” Crowley shuts the lid of the cigar box. “He just...he writes sometimes.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Your _ex._ Your ex partner _writes_ to you? From where?”

Crowley shrugs, going to the shelf and setting the cigar box on it. “Wherever he is. Not all the time, you know. Haven’t gotten anything in a while, but he’s...he’s just…” Crowley turns. “We were together for a while. We were together, before I lived with Hastur and Ligur. When I got into this program, he was already finished with his studies, so he decided to go.”

“What studies? How did you meet?”

Crowley goes back to the kitchen. “It doesn’t matter, angel. Don’t worry about it.”

“Can’t you just...can’t you tell me?” Aziraphale goes to him, puts a hand on his arm. “We’re friends. If there was someone in your life...someone you loved—”

Crowley grins, but it’s unpleasant. Aziraphale draws back.

“You want to know if he was better than you, yeah?”

“Don’t be _crass_ —”

“He wasn’t better than you. Different. But not better.” Crowley downs all his wine in one go. He’d like to be _spectacularly_ drunk for the rest of this, honestly. “Didn’t let me stay the night, for starters.”

“You said you lived together—”

“I said we _were_ together. I had a place with some random flatmates ages ago. Told you, I’ve never lived on my own before.” Crowley pours another glass of wine.

“You couldn’t stay with him?”

“He liked his space.”

“Well, yes, but if you were together—”

“Weren’t really _together._ I mean...I mean we _were_. We were,” he repeats. “Just...I couldn’t tell anyone, you know. He was older, could have gotten in trouble if I did. He was an assistant for a course of mine. That’s how we met.”

Aziraphale starts. _Oh, that’s not_ —

“Crowley, that’s…”

“Look, I know what you’re going to say, yeah? It was what it was. I loved him, he loved me, and we were together. Certain things had to be negotiated. Like us.”

“Crowley, this doesn’t sound like us at all.”

“You know we’re not supposed to be fucking, angel. Like...like you know the rules.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Crowley, if he was your _teacher_ , he took advantage of you. That’s...that’s just the truth.”

Crowley scowls. “What’s the point in looking at it that way? He...he cared about me. He took care of me. He was my first—” Crowley stops. Stares into his glass. “Look, he was important, alright? So it wasn’t... _okay._ So it wasn’t totally perfect. Like you and me are. Like you and me are so bloody wonderful.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “That’s not…” He sighs. “Alright. You loved him. Fine. I won’t argue that. But if you couldn’t say you were together, if you weren’t _together_ , then why does he write to you? Why does he keep you...keep you _dangling_?”

Crowley shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe just...I mean we were friends. I guess. He wants me to know—”

“He wants you to be waiting for him,” Aziraphale snaps. “Is that not obvious?”

“Oh, don’t talk to me like I’m stupid. Don’t...don’t act like what you and me have got is so bloody special.”

“Crowley, you’re my friend. You’re my _best_ friend. I just want you to know I’m looking out for you.”

“No, you’re looking out for _you._ ”

The words _snap_ between them. Aziraphale turns, goes looking for his coat.

“Fine,” he says. “Forget I asked.”

“I will forget you asked. Forget this whole _bloody_ day.”

Aziraphale scowls. “You’re impossible, do you know that? You’re just—”

“I’m impossible? _I’m impossible?_ You...you tag along with me for everything we do, you find me a flat, you let me drive you around and then you’ve got the bloody nerve to tell me that something I had with someone else wasn’t healthy?”

“I didn’t say—”

Crowley snarls. “You didn’t _need_ to. Mister _I don’t have time to negotiate_ right now. What is this, between you and me? What is it, then, if it isn’t a negotiation, constantly?”

“I thought we were just...we were only…” Aziraphale lets his arms fall lamely to his sides. “...I don’t know, Crowley.”

“It’s just _fucking_ , right? It’s just...just you and me, fucking one another stupid until we can’t feel the stress anymore, can’t feel how bloody anxious we are anymore. Can’t feel _each other_ anymore.”

Aziraphale finishes putting on his coat. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“You never asked me what I wanted,” Crowley snaps. He turns to go into the kitchen and down his wine. “So I guess you and him really aren’t so different after all.”

He stands there, listening to the slow grind of the zipper on Aziraphale’s coat. There’s a few beats of silence. Then the door opens, and Aziraphale is gone.

* * *

They keep sharing an office.

They don’t share much else.

Aziraphale bikes home, continues his life. Crowley slowly furnishes his flat. He spends the holidays on his own, spends New Years sitting on his sofa and trying not to remember the look on Aziraphale’s face when he bought it.

Their office reeks of wretchedness. Loneliness. Crowley is desperate for change, considers seeing if there’s a new one for him to move to, but he doesn’t think, even with the oppressive silence, he could tolerate anyone else.

Aziraphale thinks the same thing. The move on. Winter fades into a false spring. In March, Crowley gets a postcard from Luke — _Stick with it, love. Maybe I’ll see you this summer._

“Idiot,” Crowley mutters, before tossing the entire cigar box into the bin. He isn’t sure if he’s talking about Luke or Aziraphale or himself anymore. Everyone’s been so stupid lately. Himself especially.

At the end of March, Dr. G sends them an email, asking if they’d like to go to a conference in Edinburgh. Crowley thinks it’s a sort of first come, first serve thing, until she realizes they’ve got the funding to send them both, and emails them their train information.

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale, who is scribbling it all down on a piece of paper.

“...Alright with you?” he asks.

“Doesn’t seem like there’s much room for debate.”

“Right.” Crowley stands. “I’ll uh. I’ll come get you. I can park at the station.”

“Six AM,” Aziraphale says, and grabs his jacket and bag. “Not a minute later.”

Crowley nods. “Sure.” He watches Aziraphale head out of the office and down the hall. “...Can do.”

On the train ride there, Crowley sleeps with his head against the window. No clue if Aziraphale wants to talk (he doesn’t) and no clue if this was really a good idea (jury’s still out), but it’ll be nice to get out of the city for a few days and just...fuck, he has no idea. He _misses_ Aziraphale, misses him like burning. It’s a feeling that’s been threatening to overtake him like scales, growing in patches all over him. He swears loneliness is more than a state of mind, it is a person you _become._

And he’s become it.

He went from seeing Aziraphale every day, being able to touch him, being able to laugh with him, to being the stranger in the room. Going back to making their cohorts’ lives a living nightmare. He tries to hold himself up, but frankly exhaustion is just easier.

Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, letting it end like that. Maybe he should have fought harder.

He didn’t fight when Luke left, either.

Crowley wakes up from his nap, groggy and disoriented. Aziraphale’s brought him some tea, made the way he likes it.

“...Thanks.”

“Thought you’d need something. We’ll be there soon.”

“Right.”

“Did you get the itinerary yesterday? I’ve had the worst time deciding who I want to see.”

“Langfield’s there,” Crowley murmurs, sitting up. He wraps his hands around the cup and inhales. “Uh, Foster, too.”

“Oh, I love her.”

“Yeah. Fuck, remember that talk she gave last year? The way she—”

“ _Knocked_ the bloody podium over. Oh, we _howled._ ”

Crowley laughs. “Yeah. And she put, like, little angel wing stamps in everyone’s books. Bloody brilliant, she is. But _mad._ ”

“Absolutely mad.”

Crowley smiles. “Yeah. We all are, I suppose.”

Aziraphale glances at him. Feels good to just talk. They haven’t spoken and he wishes there was a way for Crowley to know how _much_ he misses him. He doesn’t know why he let it end. Easier, maybe, than negotiating something new. Not that there’s any chance of that now. Crowley’s bound to have moved on.

And he...he certainly has.

Hasn’t he?

* * *

“There’s only one bed.”

Crowley is trying to figure out how the hot water tap works on the tub in the hotel. He smells like train. “ _What?_ ” he calls.

“I _said_ , there’s only one _bed._ ”

“Well call down! See if we can switch.”

Aziraphale does. They can’t.

“Well, I mean...you and me have shared a bed before,” Crowley says. He still doesn’t know how the tub works, but Aziraphale’s going a little crazy. “S’not like...like we’re _strangers._ ”

“I know, but…”

“Oh, come off it.” Crowley goes back into the bathroom. “It was just a stupid fight. And look, we’re getting on fine now.” Aziraphale makes a noise. Crowley comes back out. “I’ll...make a wall, or something. Alright?”

Aziraphale starts. He’s being _stupid._ “No,” he says quickly. “I’m being a prude, as per usual.” Crowley snorts. “ _What?_ ”

“Oh, nothing. Just...interesting hearing _you_ call yourself a prude when it comes to the two of us.” He raises a brow and disappears into the bathroom. Aziraphale’s cheeks grow very hot.

They spend the rest of the day listening to the keynote speaker and shuffling between rooms at the conference center, hoarding free pens and notepads and _very_ ugly sweaters from university programs they wouldn’t be able to get into in a million years. When they get back up to the room they dump their haul out on the bed and start trading. This hi-lighter for that marker; this book for that one. They go out and get something to eat, have a few beers and come back.

Crowley is light headed — it’s almost too much, this contact between them. It’s almost too much touching, too much talking, too much _laughing._ Aziraphale keeps leaning into him on the walk back, and Crowley is so sure they’re going to snog on the corner he nearly leans in for it.

But they don’t. And he doesn’t.

Back in the room they get ready for bed, climbing in on either side, facing away from one another at first until Aziraphale says. “This is stupid,” and rolls over.

Crowley does, too.

The moonlight coming in through the curtains gives off just enough of a glow for Crowley to admire Aziraphale’s nose, to remember what it felt like the trace the curve of his ear with his tongue. He wants to say, _I miss you_ , but Aziraphale says first, “If I’d biked home in the rain that day, would this have happened?”

Crowley frowns. “What?”

Aziraphale sighs. “I’ve been thinking about us. About our...arrangement and everything. We just...went for it. We didn’t even think. And I’ve been wondering if it was inevitable, or if we really needed to do certain things _first._ ”

“You mean like...like getting kicked out of the library.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Yes.”

“And smoking in the parking lot.”

“And getting a reprieve from the rain.”

Crowley nods. “Yeah...yeah I guess that makes sense.” He shifts closer. “I don’t...regret it. I dunno if that’s what you’re getting at, I just…”

“Neither do I,” Aziraphale says quickly.

“Right.” One of Crowley’s hands falls between them. He hooks his finger on Aziraphale’s wrist, carefully. “I’ve missed being your friend,” he murmurs.

Aziraphale nods. “I’ve missed it, too.”

“...Can we stop being stupid and go back to at least being that? I don’t...I don’t _need_ the other stuff. I mean I liked it. I miss that, too. But being your friend is…” Crowley takes a deep breath. “I don’t have anyone else. And I don’t want that to be the only reason I just—” He starts as Aziraphale clasps their hands together. “I was doing okay without anyone. And then you went and spoiled me.”

Aziraphale laughs. “I know what you mean.”

Crowley grins. “Right. So...friends?”

Aziraphale nods. “Friends.”

* * *

Crowley should have suspected that, once they went back to being friends, they’d go back to a lot of the other parts, too.

They spend the day running between conference rooms, swapping notes, and then get roaring drunk at the cocktail party.

“Open bar,” Aziraphale says. “Might as well.”

They stick around the hotel bar with everyone else for an hour after the party ends, paying for more drinks than they probably should.

Aziraphale winds up on his back after they get to the room, gripping the headboard with one hand, Crowley’s hip with the other, while Crowley rides him like he’s been _desperate_ for it.

And he has. He says so, drunk and bracing himself with his hands on the headboard while he fucks himself open on Aziraphale’s cock, every thrust harder than the last.

“I’ve needed you. I’ve _needed_ you. Oh _fuck._ Oh, _fuck, fuck, fuck_ —”

“Take it.” Aziraphale thrusts into him. “You feel so _good_ , just _take it_ —”

“Can’t believe you...can’t believe you were fucking _ready_ for me.”

“Wishful thinking,” Aziraphale manages with a laugh.

Crowley looks down at him, his expression raw and open and full of... _full of_ —

“I love you,” he says. “Aziraphale, I _love_ you.”

“I know.” Aziraphale pulls him down, kisses him deep. “I know you do, just...just keep going. You’re doing so good for me, so _very_ good.” The kiss changes the angle, lets Aziraphale control how they finish. Crowley drops his head down to the pillow, mouth open on Aziraphale’s shoulder as he _bites_ , bites when he comes, smearing it between their chests. He makes a noise, soft and _good_ and Aziraphale falls right after, spilling into Crowley with a groan.

Crowley isn’t ready to stop, though. He lets Aziraphale’s cock slip out of him and immediately starts to clean his own come from his chest, dragging his tongue over Aziraphale’s stomach and up to his neck. When he’s clean he drops down and gently licks Aziraphale’s cock, relishing in the noises he makes above.

Aziraphale reaches down, grabs a fistful of Crowley’s hair and drags him back up, shoving their mouths together in a panic. He shouldn’t want to hear it again. He shouldn’t need to hear it again — but he holds Crowley’s face in his hands and he says, “Say it one more time.”

“I love you,” Crowley says.

They both know, come morning, it won’t matter much. They are so far gone, between their last drinks and all _this_. If either remembers, neither will admit it, and so it’s safe right now. Safe in this little bubble of time to say it. To hear it.

“I love you,” he says again.

Aziraphale swallows it all.

* * *

“Do you have the receipts from the place we went for Thai the other night?” Crowley is laying in his living room floor, filling out their reimbursement paperwork for the conference.

“I do. You just need to give me a minute to _extract_ myself from this _monstrosity,_ ” Aziraphale says, trying to get off the sofa.

Crowley rolls onto his stomach and grins. “You love it.”

“I detest it. I specifically said, when I walked in here last night, that I couldn’t stand it. Just like I said three _months_ ago.”

“Well you’ll just have to help me pick out the next one.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and goes digging in his bag, pulling out an envelope of receipts and chucking them at Crowley’s head.

“Hey!”

“Cheek.”

“Fuck you.”

The air grows very tense for a moment.

Crowley’s tongue still tastes like _I love you._ Aziraphale has a bite-shaped bruise on his shoulder.

“Tea?” he asks.

“Yeah. Bought more mugs, too.”

Aziraphale nods and gets up. All the mugs are hideous, which is sort of a relief. He’s glad that, after he left, Crowley didn’t stop reveling in being a completely feral thrifter.

“This one says _Number One Gran_.”

“Oi, that’s my favorite, make mine in that.”

Aziraphale pulls a face. “You’re the absolute worse, do you know that?”

Crowley _cackles._

* * *

They don’t negotiate again after that. Crowley tells him they’re not allowed to. What they are is what they are, and they should just... _be_ that. It shouldn’t be so hard, he says. It shouldn’t _hurt_ to just exist with one another. And if the way they exist is that they are friends, that they have sex, and that (and this is unspoken, always unspoken) they are in love — then it’s just what they are. Aziraphale doesn’t want to argue. He doesn’t have any need to argue.

Truth be told, Crowley’s the only one who’s said it. Crowley’s the only one who’s spoken it out loud. Aziraphale called him _love_ , but that’s not the same. He will insist on that. Aziraphale is quite certain, given enough time, they will either both fall into it, or tumble out of it. That’s just the way life is.

And then, in the spring of ‘94, everything sort of...changes.

* * *

It’s complicated to describe the spring of 1994. They’re in the process of applying for the PhD program, same university. Makes things easier, they know everyone there, and Dr. G’s told them both she wants them to stay on. Crowley’s applying to four back-ups, just in case, Aziraphale applies for two. The spring of ‘94 is special because it’s conceivably their last one together, if they decide to go separate ways. It could be their last one in London, their last one in _England_ , if Crowley winds up going to New York.

The spring of ‘94 _belongs_ to them, like no other season has.

One afternoon, a _Tuesday_ afternoon, if Aziraphale is getting specific — Crowley says he doesn’t feel well.

“Tired,” he mutters. “Can’t shake this headache.”

“Maybe you should go home.” Aziraphale’s shelving books in the office. Needs to get the place tidied up, no matter what happens. “Have a lie-down.”

Crowley nods, fishing around for his keys. He’s probably getting a migraine, which Aziraphale knows is the one thing that really does him in.

“Hey.” He puts a hand on his shoulder. Crowley’s driven home in worse states, in worse weather, but Aziraphale feels like he should say it anyway. “Be safe.”

Crowley nods. “Sure, angel.” He gives him a nudge with his elbow and grins. “S’my middle name.”

 _It’s not_ , Aziraphale wants to say. _Your middle name starts with a J and for the bloody life of me I can’t figure out what it is._ He sighs, watching him head out to the Yugo with a heavy heart. He’s got no _idea_ why, but something feels _wrong._ He wants to tell Crowley to just come back, come lay on the sofa ‘til he feels better, and Aziraphale will drive the bloody car back and stay with him for the night and keep the room dark and make him the blackest bloody tea under the sun with more milk than one humans should feasibly desire.

He wants to tell him he’ll drive him right now, if he really needs to get home that badly. Aziraphale hasn’t got a proper license, but he can at least get Crowley home, at least get him somewhere cool and dark and safe and maybe sit on that terrible, _awful_ sofa, the ones that’s got no business being as comfortable as it is — the one they picked out together even though Aziraphale argued and the one Crowley kept and the one that makes that tiny flat a place they can _be_ together —

He wants to tell him, suddenly, that he _loves_ him. Aziraphale is suddenly bursting with the feeling, bursting with the need to say _I love you, I love you, I love you_ because what if something happens, what if he doesn’t get the chance, what if —

So many what if’s. So many _fucking_ what if’s.

Too many to count. Too many to keep track of. In the waiting room of the hospital Aziraphale’s hands start to shake and there is _no one to call_. Crowley’s parents are dead, he doesn’t have siblings, he has an uncle, somewhere, who he never speaks to, and Aziraphale has been his emergency contact for three fucking years and never needed to worry about what would happen if someone decided to call.

He hates this. Hates it like burning, hates it more than he’s hated anything in his life.

“Are you friends with Anthony?” the nurse asks. “Azir...Azira—”

“Yes. That’s me.”

She smiles. Probably learned to smile like that in training. Doesn’t do much for him. Aziraphale stands when she motions for him to follow and starts talking about things like blood and trauma and skull fractures. How Crowley was very lucky he was wearing a seatbelt. She says that a lot. She says that _a lot._

“Is he alright?”

“He’s going to be fine,” she says, and the relief he feels drowns out whatever she says next. Aziraphale runs a hand through his hair, kind of walks in little circles until the nurse realizes he’s not listening to her. “Do you want to go sit with him?”

“Yes I do.”

“He’s asleep right now. Completely out, probably will be until tomorrow, but I’m sure he’d like to know he’s got company.” She pushes open the door to Crowley’s room. “No broken bones, bloody miracle that.”

“Right. Right, thank you.” Aziraphale goes and pulls a chair by the bed. The nurse lingers for a moment before nodding and closing the door behind her.

Crowley is hooked up to an IV, to a heart monitor and whatever is telegraphing his brain activity into the universe. Lots of careful beeps. Lots of little wires here and there. Aziraphale reaches out and takes his hand, stroking his thumb over the knuckles.

“Idiot,” he mutters. “Me, not you. You just...went home. You drive like a maniac, but you never put anyone in danger. Someone told me you...there was a police officer there. She said you were just sitting at a light. Five seconds, she told me. Probably wasn’t supposed to. But if you’d been five seconds later, wouldn’t have happened.” Aziraphale lifts his hand, presses his lips to it. “Right, so. Summer was going really well. Now look where we are. What can’t you and I can’t figure this out, hm?” He laughs. “Probably should have said...said _something_ a while ago.”

“I love you, you know. I’ve just...got no nerve to say it when you’re around. And now you’ll be off somewhere probably. I mean staying here would be...it’d be grand if you did. If we both did. But we might go off and I’ve never...and you’ve only said it that one time and I can still _hear_ it, you know. You were so beautiful when you said it and I wish I’d said it back. I wish we hadn’t...hadn’t wasted the last two years.” Aziraphale wipes at his cheek with his palm. “Well. I don’t think it was a waste. But I think it was a waste not to say I love you. I think I should have done something with that.” He kisses Crowley’s hand again. “I love you. Last time,” he adds. “Last time I’ll say it like this.

“Promise.”

* * *

At three AM, Crowley leans over and shakes Aziraphale awake.

“ _Angel_ ,” he croaks.

“Crowley! Crowley, you’re—”

“Angel.” He tries to sit up, but Aziraphale stops him, gets him a cup of water.

“You’re in a lot of pain, you got rattled fairly hard, from what I understand.”

 _Yeah_ , Crowley can _feel that._ He can’t remember it, but he can definitely feel it.

“Aziraphale.” He only knows one thing: that he was in his car, and now he’s here. “I need to ask you something.”

Aziraphale looks at him, like he _knows_ what’s coming, and Crowley feels sick.

“Oh, _Crowley_.”

“Where’s my car?”

“Crowley—”

“Just...tell me where my car is.”

Aziraphale presses his lips together, takes Crowley’s hand and tries to smile. Feels like a smile he learned from the nursing staff. “I’m so sorry, love.”

“What does that _mean_?”

Aziraphale explains in a very soft, careful voice that the Yugo didn’t make it. That the Yugo, in a very valiant effort, is probably the reason he doesn’t have eighty-seven broken bones, a broken neck, and a fractured skull. That the Yugo, in all its Yugoslavian glory, was completely destroyed.

Crowley sinks down into the bed and stares at the ceiling.

After a while, Aziraphale nudges toward him, and Crowley moves over, so they can lay together. “...She was a good car,” Aziraphale murmurs, curled on his side, stroking Crowley’s arm.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “She was.”

* * *

There are only two things that prove there was ever an accident.

The first is the hollow, painful absence of the Yugo. Crowley keeps going outside to his parking spot, holding a phantom key, and being sick in the bushes. He’s losing weight.

The second is the gash on the right side of his face that isn’t going to heal right, and will, eventually, form a scar.

There’s the pain, of course, and the bruising that makes it hard to breathe, but all that will fade.

Everything else — it’s going to last forever.

* * *

“Is that what’s left?” Aziraphale asks.

“Tapes made it, somehow.” Crowley opens the lid of the shoebox to find his tape collection unscathed. It’s gotten a little mixed up over the last few years, his choices mixed in with Aziraphale’s. Simon and Garfunkel alongside Queen and Bowie; Debussey and Chopin next to Lou Reed — but it’s what’s left, along with a little bit of red metal from the door. The rest is history, and he doesn’t have a car anymore.

Probably for the best. He’s moving to New York in two months, and he still needs to tell Aziraphale.

He got an email from his new flatmate the other day. Something about what room he wanted or what he was going to bring. It’d sent him into a panic he couldn’t explain, and he’d just laid on Aziraphale’s sofa for an hour, head in his lap, letting Aziraphale card his fingers through his hair and read an article he’d peer reviewed for a journal.

What Crowley _wants_ to do is plan for it, really have a day where they just talk about things, get it all out there, spill their guts about one bit or another. They’re sitting in the Chinese restaurant near Aziraphale’s flat, and Crowley is thinking that maybe this coming Sunday would be a good day to do it, when Aziraphale sets down his soup spoon and announces, “I’m moving to Berlin.”

Crowley chokes on his noodles for a second before managing to get it all down. “ _What?_ ”

“Berlin. I...I was accepted into the program. _Lord_ , it feels so good to tell you that, you’ve no _idea_ —”

“I’m moving to New York,” Crowley says. It feels like one of those moments where everyone in the restaurant should stop and stare at them, but no one does. No one notices the fucking crisis they’ve just instigated between themselves, and no one is really looking at the way Aziraphale looks _absolutely_ crestfallen and no one can hear the double beats Crowley’s heart is putting out.

“...Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says. “I’ve been wanting to tell you, I didn’t know how—”

“I had no idea how to tell you either. I mean we knew—”

“Total possibility.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Aziraphale says, look less a shade of sickly yellow and more his normal pinkish self. “Yes, we did know.” He picks up his spoon again, but it feels...wrong, to eat now. “Should we box all this? Go back to my place?”

“We should,” Crowley says quickly, and flags down a server.

That night, they go to bed together, but Crowley isn’t in the mood for anything beyond rolling to one side and counting Aziraphale’s lashes.

Aziraphale sighs. “If I had my way…”

“I know.”

“I don’t _want_ to leave, of course. But Berlin is such a good opportunity. And I know New York is the same for you. Have you got someplace to live?”

“New flatmate asked if I wouldn’t mind sharing a bathroom. Sent an email last week.”

Aziraphale sighs. He knows Crowley has come to love his own space, and neither of them talk about that day when he stumbled upon Hastur and Ligur. “I’m so sorry.”

“Place to yourself then?”

“It belongs to a professor at the university. He’s on an extended job in Turkey, apparently. The place is mine until I’m finished.”

“That’s lucky.”

“I suppose.” He shifts closer, reaching out to cup Crowley’s cheek. “I’m sure we’ll...we’ll talk. We’ll see one another maybe, a conference here or there.”

“Hey, it doesn’t matter to me angel. Work’s work. I’m just happy we’re getting it.”

“...Right.”

Aziraphale lowers his hand. He’s suddenly rather exhausted, so he rolls to his back and murmurs, “Good night,” even as he knows Crowley has already drifted asleep.

* * *

Crowley needs to put his things in storage. He has no desire to stay in America longer than a handful of years, and while the program is excellent, the concept is already exhausting. Aziraphale helps him move his things into storage, because he gets a better deal if it goes in sooner rather than later, and then offers to let him stay at his place until he goes.

“You don’t—”

“You’ve got no other options, Crowley. We talked about this two weeks ago and you agreed.”

“ _Against_ my _will._ ”

Aziraphale fixes him with a look. “Don’t behave like you’re _scandalized_ by the notion. I’m not forcing you to sleep on the sofa.”

Crowley’s cheeks grow hot. He doesn’t want to owe Aziraphale anything, but after three days of being his flatmate, he can already tell it’s vastly better than anything he’s going to have in the states.

The fact that they start fucking like mad right from the beginning doesn’t _hurt._

Case in point: it is the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday. They should both be working, and instead, Aziraphale is on his hands and knees in bed, gasping for his release while Crowley fucks into him with absolute abandon.

He leans over Aziraphale’s back and kisses his neck, thrusting deep before going very still.

“ _Crowley_ —”

“Just...you feel good. Wanted to savor it.”

“Please don’t stop. _Crowley_ don’t stop—”

Crowley wouldn’t _dream_ of it. He goes until he’s spilling into Aziraphale, shoving a frantic hand into his hair and pulling back, _hard._ “ _Angel._ ”

Aziraphale loves it. Oh, he _loves_ when Crowley calls him that. When he’s gone, who will say it? When they’re on either side of the ocean, who will whisper it, softly, and laugh about it with him?

Crowley eats him out, just like he promised, and Aziraphale’s voice pitches higher than he’s willing to admit.

If they cling to one another, in the aftermath — if they hold each other tight after they both pretend to have dozed off —

It doesn’t mean anything.

It doesn’t mean a _damn thing._

* * *

This is their last week together, and they’re both pretending it’s fine. They’ve never showered together, before. Two years of doing this, and they’re just now giving it a shot. Crowley drops to his knees and feels warm water wash over his head as he takes Aziraphale’s cock into his mouth with a blissful moan.

Aziraphale fucks him right after, while they’re slick and wet from the shower, coming all over Crowley’s chest just so they can get in again.

They think about going out, but going out means not being able to touch, not being able to simply grab one another. Crowley wants to drop to his knees whenever possible. Aziraphale wants to kiss him until he’s bruised. They want to take and take and _take_ from one another, but more than that —

“Oh, won’t you give that to me, darling? Won’t you come for me?”

Crowley nods, thrusting again and again, exactly the way Aziraphale likes it. He pulls out and fists his own cock for a few seconds as Aziraphale sits up, takes it into his mouth and swallows it all.

“So bloody gorgeous,” Crowley says, climbing into Aziraphale’s lap and cradling his face in his hands, kissing him again and again.

He wants to say, _please don’t leave me._

He wants to say, _I love you._

Aziraphale falls backwards into bed, taking Crowley with him. “I’m going to be limping the entire first month I’m there.”

Crowley _snarls._ “Good,” he says, and presses two slick fingers into Aziraphale, thrusting slowly until he finally comes. The need is thick and palpable and Crowley isn’t just going to let him go.

If he can’t say it, if he can’t use the words — then Aziraphale is going to be able to _feel_ how much Crowley loves him. No matter what.

 _Someday_ , he thinks. _Someday, me and you are going to sort this out. We’re going to find each other in a different place, and we’re going to do it right that time._

But, until then —

Crowley lays beside him, laughs at his terrible jokes, and shares his pen while they edit together in silence.

* * *

“That’s _not_ yours,” Aziraphale says. He’s leaning against the door frame, watching Crowley pack.

“Hm?” Crowley doesn’t look up, continuing to shove things haphazardly into one of his suitcases.

“ _That_ ,” Aziraphale says, and goes to the bed to pick up an old sweater, “is mine and you know it.”

Crowley finally looks at him, brow raised and _smirking._ “Huh,” he says, and pries the sweater from Aziraphale’s fingers. “Could have _sworn_ that was mine.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale reaches for it, but Crowley steps away, dangling it over his head. “Don’t be a child about this, just—”

“Sorry, angel, you’re _just._ Too. Slow.” Crowley tugs the sweater on over his t-shirt. “If you can catch me though…”

“You—” Aziraphale _lunges_ , just as Crowley snakes out of the way, leaping over another suitcase. Aziraphale trips and swears before getting his footing and running into the living room. “Crowley, I’m serious.”

“You _never_ wear this. I wear it constantly! I swear if I’d packed it up,” Crowley dodges a swipe, “you wouldn’t have fucking noticed.” He laughs, spinning just out of Aziraphale’s grasp. “Come on, angel, I’ll let you keep something of mine.”

“Oh, really. What should I _keep_ then? Ratty Queen shirt number one? Or...ratty Queen shirt number two?” Aziraphale tries to grab him again. Crowley ducks under his arm and back down the hall. “Oh, I know!” Aziraphale runs into the bedroom and shuts the door behind him. “Ratty Queen shirt number _three._ ”

With a huff, a touch, and a groan, Crowley pins Aziraphale to the door and kisses him, cupping his jaw and sliding his tongue into his mouth. Aziraphale melts into the touch, gripping the sweater in his hand. He pulls back only to tip his head to the side so Crowley can drag his teeth over Aziraphale’s pulse point.

“You can have them all,” Crowley murmurs, surprising himself. It takes only a minute or so for them to devolve into frantic rutting, until Crowley finally tugs Aziraphale to the bed, shoving his things onto the floor. “Fuck, just—”

“Off,” Aziraphale snaps. “Just... _off._ ” He pulls at the button of Crowley’s jeans until he complies, but stops him before he takes off the sweater. “No,” he says. “That...that can stay on.”

Crowley’s eyes widen. “...Right.”

And he does look...so gorgeous laying there in Aziraphale’s ancient grey cotton sweater, the thing he’s had since he bought it on a whim his second year in uni. He looks good, his back arched off the bed while Aziraphale tongues his hole and strokes his cock. Looks good when Aziraphale is finally naked and has slick fingers opening him up, right before he slides his cock into him. Crowley bends his knees and looks _so good_ while Aziraphale takes him, over and over.

“Oh _fuck._ Fuck, Aziraphale, that’s it, right—” He cries out, fisting his cock in his hand.

“If you get that sweater dirty—”

Crowley laughs, looking at him. “Want to do something about it? Because I’m close. I’m _really_ fucking close.”

“ _Crowley_.”

“You’re fucking me _so good_ ,” he hisses, dragging his thumb over the head of his cock. “S’why I’m so...so _fucking_ close—” And it’s true — every single thrust is perfect, every single touch makes Crowley feel _electrified._

He wonders if Aziraphale is trying to do the same thing (he is). He wonders if Aziraphale is feeling the same way (he most _definitely_ is).

He wonders if Aziraphale loves him (static, there — tough man to read).

Aziraphale groans and thrusts in harder, now. Crowley whines, squeezing his cock, staving off his orgasm.

“ _Fuck._ I’m going to come, I’m going to fucking come if you don’t—”

“Don’t you dare,” Aziraphale says. “Don’t you _dare_ come on that sweater, or I’ll never talk to you again.”

Crowley huffs. “Cut the melodrama, just—” He whines again when Aziraphale pulls out, makes a noise he’ll never admit to making when Aziraphale sinks to his knees and takes Crowley’s cock into his mouth, _easy._ “Oh _shit_.”

Aziraphale swallows him down, slipping two fingers inside while he sucks him off. When the first bit of Crowley’s come hits his tongue, he pulls off, lets the rest of it cover his neck and slide down toward his chest.

Crowley sits up on his elbows, looking at the mess he’s made. “ _Christ._ ” He watches Aziraphale stand and lays back, letting Aziraphale come on his legs.

They stay like that for a few minutes, Aziraphale on trembling legs, still stroking his cock while they lay there, covered in one another, breathing heavy, considering eight thousand implications.

 _Funny way to leave your mark_ , Crowley wants to say, even though he’s more than happy with it. He’d be happy to lay in bed, covered in Aziraphale’s come, for the rest of the day.

And Aziraphale would be more than happy to watch. More than happy to do the same. He drags his fingers through the mess on his chest and licks them clean. Crowley swears.

“You’re going to _kill me_ , you know that?”

“ _Melodrama_ ,” Aziraphale mutters. “Come on, get that sweater off and let’s get cleaned up. You need to finish packing.” He walks toward the bathroom.

Crowley reaches down, takes some of Aziraphale’s come and spreads it on his tongue.

 _Funny way to remember someone_ , he wants to say — but he’s more than happy with it.

* * *

It’s early. It’s earlier than Aziraphale was intending to wake up. He blinks in the dark and as his eyes adjust, he sees Crowley, shuffling through one of his bags, already dressed.

“...What are you doing?”

Crowley looks caught.

Crowley _feels_ caught, grimacing in the dark. “Nothing, angel. Go back to sleep.”

Aziraphale sits up. “You’re _leaving_. Aren’t you?”

“You knew that.”

Aziraphale scowls and turns on a light. Crowley stills for a moment, then goes back to packing. “I’m supposed to go with you.”

“Shouldn’t,” Crowley says. “Bad idea.”

“Stop this.” Aziraphale crawls over the bed and reaches for him, but Crowley draws back. “Crowley, _stop._ ”

Crowley steps away. “Look, I’ve been up all bloody night thinking about this, and I know. I _know_ what’s going to happen. Same as it always does, yeah?”

“...I am not Luke.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Crowley hefts his duffel onto the bed. “It’s _never_ mattered. It’s the way it is, it’s people, isn’t it? Sure, you’re not him, but we won’t be together.” _We’ve never_ been _together_ , he doesn’t say. Seems useless, really.

“You said it didn’t matter. That we would sort out being apart.” Aziraphale gets out of bed. “What’s changed? Why are you—” He stops. He remembers post cards in a box in Crowley’s flat, and thinks about them falling on the floor. Thinks about Luke’s graceful signature, his _pretentious_ scrawl. “You think I’ll expect you to wait.”

“Won’t you?”

“I thought...I assumed we would…we’d wait for each other.”

“Bit presumptuous of you.”

“You said you _loved_ me,” Aziraphale snaps. “That night, at the conference. You were the one, you said it first.” _Hypocrite_ , a voice says. He said it. He said it when Crowley was in hospital, after the accident. _Doesn’t count_.

“I don’t want to be expected to wait,” Crowley says. He doesn’t have to talk about love right now. He doesn’t need to put up with _that_ right now. God, of course he _said_ it. He said it then, he’d say it a hundred times over, but the world is pulling them apart, they were always meant to be on opposite sides of it all, and he —

“So you were just going to leave then. Without telling me.”

Crowley shrugs. He has to play this off. “You’re a man of pragmatism. I assumed you’d understand.” He zips the last bag. “We’re friends, Aziraphale. I thought—”

“ _Are we?_ ” The air between them crackles. There is a bridge and it is crumbling. Crowley feels it. Aziraphale feels it.

There were a hundred ways to save them. Now, there’s nothing. Aziraphale steps back.

“Go,” he says.

Crowley feels a great ache in his chest. “Aziraphale, we—”

“There is no _we_ , Crowley. Obviously. You want to be alone, you want this to fall apart, then walk out. I won’t bother, I’m sorry I ever did.”

Crowley swallows. “...Right.” He pulls on his jacket and hefts his bag onto his shoulder, picks up the other.

This...this is what he wanted, right? No attachments left behind. No waiting. No one waiting for _him._ This is what was meant to happen — right?

“Well. Have a good life, angel.” He means that. Aziraphale _knows_ he means that.

Doesn’t change the way it feels, watching him walk away.

And for Crowley...doesn’t change the way it feels, doing the walking.

* * *

Crowley’s flight information is written on a piece of paper, stuck under a magnet on Aziraphale’s fridge. Crowley’s been gone for fifteen minutes, and Aziraphale is on his first cup of tea. He assumes there will be more.

There are several things he could do. The first thought he has is to expunge Crowley’s presence from the flat. There’s a t-shirt in the laundry basket on the sofa, his food is still in the fridge, one of his coffee mugs — _I Went to Stonehenge and All I Got Was Abducted By Aliens (And This Mug)_ — still in the sink. Aziraphale sips his tea and considers throwing all of it out.

But that would be premature. And with a pang he realizes — _he already misses him._

In a taxi on the way to the airport, Crowley is realizing the same thing.

Aziraphale sets down his cup.

 _It’s a mistake._ This? Letting Crowley leave, letting him walk away, letting it end the way it did. Maybe the worst mistake of his life. And he has to fix it.

There are so many things neither of them can change — how they met, the things they did, the words they said. It’s happened, it was probably always going to happen. And what it _is_ , he can’t say, what he _feels_ is almost too great for any one language. Inutterable, unspeakable —

“Oh for heaven’s _sake_ ,” Aziraphale mutters, struggling to put on his shoes. _Christ_ , what’s the word, it’s a good word, he’s often thought it, never said it aloud. He read it, he knows —

_Ineffable._

“Ineffable.” It’s them, it’s what they are, it’s what they’ve always _been._ Aziraphale finally gets his shoes on, his jacket, and flings his door open. He doesn’t even know if it shuts behind him, he doesn’t know if there’s hope, he doesn’t _know_ if this is the right choice, but he can’t live his life only making _right choices._

It wasn’t a right choice to kiss Crowley that night in the car. They were too much, for themselves and one another, but he made it, didn’t he? _They_ made it, together.

What he has learned, what he understands, now, is the opposite of _right_ isn’t always _wrong._ Just different. Just another. Another choice, another decision, another day, another —

“Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale is looking around wildly for a taxi. Standing on the curb, spilling out of the backseat —

“ _Crowley._ ”

They meet.

Crowley had turned back, around the time he realized how _stupid_ he was. How stupid they _both_ were. All this time, teasing and toying with emotions? Should have just admitted to it. Should have accepted it.

“Aziraphale, I—”

“I love you,” Aziraphale blurts out. “I love you, without rhyme, reason, or agenda. Not because I expect you to wait, or because I want you to know I’m waiting for _you_. I just... _love_ you.”

Crowley kisses him. There is an ocean between the moment they met and now. Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s shirt and holds him close.

 _Feels like crashing_ , Crowley thinks, because he knows. He pulls back. “I’m stupid. I’m stupid to think you didn’t. And I’m sorry—”

“I didn’t say it—”

Crowley kisses him again. Kisses him again. _Kisses him again._

The cabbie honks at them. Crowley laughs. “Let’s do this properly, then?”

Aziraphale smiles. “Of course, my dear.” He follows Crowley into the cab. He will follow Crowley anywhere. “Of _course._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ weatheredlaw


End file.
